


A Flame In The Darkness

by Ginger_kitty



Series: Worlds Enough and Time [2]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Betrayal, Consensual Sex, F/F, F/M, Human Noble (Dragon Age) Origin, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, King Alistair and Queen Cousland, Marriage of Convenience, Minor Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-10
Updated: 2020-08-20
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:02:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25816231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ginger_kitty/pseuds/Ginger_kitty
Summary: In one horrific night Rhiannon Cousland loses her family and her home and becomes a penniless fugitive, fleeing with one of the mysterious Grey Wardens and pledged by her dying father to become one of them.  For despite assassinations, dark magic and civil war, a Blight is coming, and only the Grey Wardens can save Thedas from an Archdemon.  As one of only two Grey Wardens left alive, Rhiannon must bind Ferelden together and find a way to kill one of the Old Gods.
Relationships: Alistair/Female Cousland (Dragon Age), Alistair/Morrigan (Dragon Age), Bryce Cousland/Eleanor Cousland, Female Cousland/Iona (Dragon Age), Fergus Cousland/Oriana Cousland
Series: Worlds Enough and Time [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1873099
Kudos: 1





	1. The Betrayal

**Author's Note:**

> These are a collection of related stories setting the scene for the main stories in this series.

Rhiannon Cousland awoke to the growling of her mabari, Nemain. For a moment she was disoriented, it felt as though she had only just fallen asleep, curled into Iona, Lady Landra’s sweet lady-in-waiting, sated and relaxed. It was still late, she could feel it, but something had disturbed the dog. Iona was nervously trying to soothe her but Nemain was having none of it and the woman appealed to Rhi to settle her.

“She probably wants out, just open the door and come back to bed,” she said sleepily, patting the bed beside her and snuggling back under the blankets, barely noticing the snick of the door opening until Iona screamed and Nemain burst past her as she fell. Rhi flung herself out of bed and grabbed her daggers with no time to find even a shift to covered her nakedness before two men wearing the Amaranthine crest pushed into the room. Nemain had evidently finished one off in the corridor because she turned and hamstrung the closest, his screams joining Iona’s as they both lay bleeding out on the floor, he grasping his leg while she tried to push her guts back into the gaping hole in her belly, eyes glassy with insane terror and impending death. Rhi slipped on a pool of blood and the edge of the last mans dagger tore a shallow line along her arm before she caught herself and thrust a dagger into the line of his groin, blood spurting over her face and body, hot iron in her mouth. Silence fell in the room as Iona finally joined the dead soldiers, limp hands covered in her own blood sitting almost inside her belly. Rhi threw a blanket over her, hiding the accusing stare, before pulling padded linen then leather armour on and strapping her daggers to her side lifted her longbow. On instinct she grabbed a couple of coin purses from her drawer and hid them within her armour following Nemain out the door.

At the end of the corridor another two of Howe’s men were trying to batter down her parent’s bedroom door. Praying that they had gone for herself and her parents first she ignored the door of Fergus’ suite, trusting that Oriana would have barricaded the door at the first sound of trouble, she drew her bow and let fly. Her arrow lodged itself in the back of one soldier’s skull and he dropped silently while Nemain barrelled into the other, knocking him onto his back where she easily tore out his throat. Rhi ran to the door just as her mother opened it, already clad in light armour and wielding sword and shield as if it had been thirty minutes ago she laid them down rather than thirty years.

“Where is Father?” Rhi gasped, trying to get her breathing under control and peering behind her mother, assuming Bryce was putting on his heavier mail armour, staring blankly back at Eleanor as she realised the room was empty.

“He didn’t come to bed; he was staying up with Rendon…”

“Howe betrayed us,” grated Rhi, “Father could already be dead.” Eleanor’s face hardened, she was no frail damsel to fall apart at such news, she simply held a firmer grip on her sword and clenched her jaw, determined to kill as many of Howe’s men as she could find. The invasion of her home, the betrayal by a trusted friend, those things only made her more angry. It was what they found next that broke the Seawolf.

Oren’s throat had been slit and Rhi could only hope it had happened before he saw what the soldiers had done to his mother. As Rhiannon covered Oriana’s body to give her some dignity in death, Eleanor held her grandson’s body in her arms and wept. Rhi watched her mother and wished she could cry but her eyes were dry and all she felt was the urge to kill, to destroy Howe and his men and watch the life leave their eyes at her hand.

“Mother,” she placed her hand on Eleanor’s shoulder, trying to draw her away from the dead child. “We need to find Father. We need to find out what’s going and on and get these bastards out of our home.” Her mother looked up, wiping the tears from her eyes and nodded. She tucked Oren’s stuffed mabari, Champion, beside him then pulled a blanket over him, hiding the gaping wound in his neck until he could simply have been lying sleeping. Then she stood and turned to Rhiannon.

“I’m going to kill every one of those fuckers and then I’m going to gut Howe and let the rats have him.” She left the room behind without another glance, pulling her anger around her like another layer of armour as they moved through the palace.

Landra. Dairren. Aldous. Alec and Rayden, the guards Rhiannon had joked with just that day as they played cards outside the treasury. Mother Mallol. Body after body littered Castle Cousland, as if a careless child had thrown her dolls around and left them lying. Rhiannon rallied the remaining guards and servants, urging them to grab whatever weapons they could loot from the invaders bodies, and they fought their way to the Great Hall. Inside was chaos, the harsh squeal of clashing metal, war cries, the screams of the injured and dying. She switched to her bow to bring down an apostate who slung lightning and fireballs indiscriminately; for Howe, apparently, life was cheap. But there was no sign of the traitor, or of her father. The remaining soldiers were led by Ser Gilmore and he refused to leave them, directing the women to the escape tunnel in the kitchens where Bryce waited for them, buying every minute he could with the lives of his men and his own.

But in the end it was all for naught. Castle Cousland fell, its Teyrn and Teyrna with it, every soul within slaughtered, it’s last survivor fleeing through secret tunnels with a Grey Warden, no longer a lady but a fugitive and a recruit.


	2. The Grey Wardens

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a rewrite of the very first thing fan fic I wrote, Conversations with Alistair.

"You know, one good thing about the Blight is how it brings people together."

Given the scene I’ve just witnessed, I have to assume he’s joking. Needling an obviously harassed and exhausted looking mage on behalf of the Revered Mother, I assume I’ve come across a Templar. I’ve been all over this stupid camp, and still haven’t found this Alistair I was told to look out for. I have met my fellow potential Grey Wardens, however, and I can’t say I’m looking forward to having to ask either to help me; one all brawn and piety with little resembling thought about him, and judging where the other was talking to, I can only presume he thought I was a dwarf. Picking up a few bits and pieces left lying around has been the only useful part of the whole experience.

Suddenly, I realise he was actually talking to me, and obviously expects a response. “Sorry, what?” 

"Wait, we haven't met, have we? I don't suppose you happen to be another mage?" 

“Why, would that make your day worse?” I regret my flippant tone, born of frustration. “Please forgive me, Ser Knight, I’m looking for a Grey Warden by the name of Alistair, do you know where I might find him? Duncan asked me to introduce myself and let him know we have returned.” 

“Oh, you’re Lady Cousland aren’t you? I apologise, my Lady, I should have recognised you. I’m Alistair. I was waiting for you both when the Revered Mother collared me. She’s a scary woman, you know. I thought I could run the message and be back before you arrived but Mage Grumps-a-lot had other ideas.” He rolled his eyes, “I’m sure she only sends me because she knows it annoys them. That’s the third time today I’ve had to deal with him, and this time he kept me waiting 20 minutes before he would deign to notice me. I should have kept my mouth shut but being surrounded by darkspawn, Duncan weeks overdue and now this… Well, keeping my mouth shut isn’t really one of my strengths.” I’m surprised. Alistair has the manner and bearing of a Templar. Not only that, he’s young, probably only a few years older than me. I assumed the Grey Wardens were all older, the recruits certainly were. I was younger than Jory and Daveth by at least a decade. He looks abashed, I don’t know if it’s because of his behaviour towards the mage, or because he was caught at it, and there’s something of the puppy about him. He reminds me of Nemain, my Mabari, when Nan caught her in the kitchens again. Thoughts of Nan bring a lump to my throat and I push it down, for weeks I’ve done nothing but alternate between sobbing out my grief and raging at the bastard Howe. The King has promised me justice, as did Teyrn Loghain. For now I need to push it aside. From the sounds of it, the battle here should be soon over and I can seek out my brother. I dread telling Fergus he is now Teyrn, dread telling him about Oriana and Oren even more, but the sooner it’s done the better. All my options now lie with the Grey Wardens, there is nothing left of me but duty and revenge and no room for crying in either. 

"As the junior member of the order, I'll be accompanying you when you prepare for the Joining." I nod, absently. Duncan is obviously too important and too busy. Since I know nothing of the ceremony, Alistair seems the obvious person to guide the three of us. 

“Let’s get on with it then,” I reply, “My fellow recruits were heading to Duncan, now we’re here. I get the impression there isn’t much time before the battle.” 

Walking through the camp, I consider Alistair. I’m not short but he towers above me, he must be well over 6 foot. His shoulders are broad, saving him from looking gangly the way tall men often do, and he is stunningly handsome. His features strike me as familiar but I can’t place them. I can tell he’s vain, he knows how he looks, and knows the women we pass turn to look at him. His hair sits a little too perfectly for a war camp and he has found time to shave, something few of the men here have done for some time. But he also has an air of innocence about him. His quips are graceless and slightly nervous and he seems embarrassed by the glances he attracts. Growing up in a chantry has left its mark it seems. He must be an excellent swordsman to have been chosen as a Templar, but innocence does not attract me. I draw my attention back to the camp and realise we have reached Duncan’s fire. Now it begins. 

\------ 

“This is my mother’s locket, but it’s not broken? Where did you find it?” 

“I found it in Redcliffe castle, in the study.” I squirm, I know he doesn’t approve of my habit of ‘looking about’ for anything interesting. I thought about telling him that I found it on the road. The worthless, vicious part of me even wants to tell him it’s just a common trinket, a copper a dozen. But when I found it, I remembered how he looked when he told me about it. And how I had nothing of my mother’s to remember her by. His joking might be irritating, but it hides deep wounds, bandaging over the scars left by a life of neglect. 

“Arl Eamon must have repaired it, maybe he even brought it with him to the Chantry, but I wouldn’t even see him.” 

“Perhaps you mean more to him than you think?” I only say it to make him feel better. I only met Eamon a couple of times, he’s a stiff-necked, controlling man, utterly besotted with his silly, vain wife. A vague dislike has hardened into definite loathing listening to Alistair tell stories of his youth. Telling a child he’s the son of a king, then making him sleep above the stables to rub in his lowly state, allowing his bitch of a wife to make a child’s life a misery then banishing him to a chantry at ten years old. Fixing a locket, or more likely getting a smith to fix it for him, was the least he could do. And if Alistair wouldn’t see him, he should have made sure the boy had his mother’s locket by some other means. My platitude works though, Alistair looks pleased. I’m depressed by his innocence and good nature but truthfully, it’s a little endearing too. He always sees the best in people, even people like me, and it’s hard to ignore that. 

“I need to go, I have something for Leliana too,” I mutter. “I found the flowers she was talking about, Andraste’s Grace, they were growing beside the mill.” He smiles.

“Thank you, for remembering.” I look up at him, dazzled again by his good looks and now I see what I thought was familiar when we met. His brother had similar features, but Alistair’s stronger jaw and hazel eyes are more masculine, more appealing. His personality is as well. I want to tell him that he’s special, I want to undo some of the damage the idiots in the castle behind us did. I wish I had my brother’s easy charm, or my father’s way with people, they always said the right thing. Instead I offer the only thing I can, “You’re a friend. Of course I remembered.”

\------

I think I might die laughing. For once everything seems to be going right. Eamon is awake so hopefully he’ll be useful at some point, and the Circle are under control and have pledged their support. We even managed to save Eamon’s son, Connor. I couldn’t look at him without seeing Oren’s broken body, lying in a pool of blood, I would have done anything, even let him stay possessed, rather than cut down the abomination that looked like a child. Thankfully, Morrigan saved me from making that choice, as she so often does, by risking herself in the Fade to save the child’s soul. Sitting by the campfire, listening to Leliana’s beautiful voice, soaring above Zevran’s rich baritone, I can finally relax a little. The song they’re singing is more than a little risqué and the chorus is so simple Morrigan and I have no problem joining in, her voice hesitant but surprisingly sweet while my alto sounds less like a dying crow than usual. Zevran, of course, then brings the tone down even further by suggesting a game, a drinking game I had heard the soldiers playing at Highever. It always starts innocuous enough, but doesn’t stay there long and sure enough soon only Leliana and Zevran are really in competition while Morrigan and I look on as their exploits get more and more extreme.

It’s time for my watch, so it’s a good job I haven’t really had that much to drink. I never thought of myself as innocent but I obviously have a fair bit of catching up to do. I look around, spotting Sten immediately and nodding to him, indicating he should get Zev moving before another bottle of brandy is opened. I can’t see Alistair at first, I sat too near the campfire and my eyes need to adjust. Finally I see him, leaning against a tree, looking out into the forest. He must be able to hear me but he keeps looking away. When I get closer I realise why, sound carries well from the campfire and the puppy is blushing, actually blushing! He looks at me and blushes even more, even the tips of his ears are bright red. He’s a soldier, surely he must have…no of course not, how stupid of me. 

“If you were raised in the Chantry, have you never...?” I’m cursing my stupid mouth before the sentence is out. 

“Never...? Never what? Had a good pair of shoes? Have I never seen a basilisk? Ate jellied ham? Have I never licked a lamppost in winter?” He’s almost defiantly stubborn about misunderstanding me. I’ve embarrassed him and I wish I could sink into the ground but I’ve had too much brandy and I can’t seem to control my mouth. 

“Now you’re making fun of me!” 

“Make fun of you, dear lady? Perish the thought. Well tell me: have you ever licked a lamppost in winter?” Now he’s annoyed, pushing himself upright away from the tree and I’m sure he’s about to walk away, furious at me for once, although I’ve given him far more reason in the past. I try to lighten the mood with humour. 

“I've licked my share of lampposts and then some.” Wrong choice, I think, as he tenses up more. I’m never drinking Antivan brandy with that damn elf again. 

Alistair’s face has completely closed down and I think he’s going to walk away until suddenly he answers, “I myself have never had the pleasure, not that I haven't thought about it, of course, but... You know.” I do know. I know he spent years in the chantry, I know he had no friends, no comrades, that he spent most of his time being punished for never being enough for everyone else. I feel sick at playing this silly game, for not shutting my big, drunken mouth when I should have. I grab the sozzled idiot I’ve become before I can say anything more stupid and try to shake the brandy haze.

“Alistair, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be flippant. It’s just…” I trail off because really there’s nothing I can say to make this better, although I can think of plenty to make it worse, like telling him it’s cute he’s a virgin. “You should go, get some rest. I’ll stay here on watch and tell myself all the ways I’m a stupid, insensitive bitch, since you’re too nice to do it yourself.” 

He relaxes a little and comes closer, putting his hand on my arm. “It’s ok, Rhi. It’s fine, honestly. Besides, it’s usually me walking about with foot permanently in mouth. Maybe I deserve to be on the receiving end.” I disagree immediately. He’s never been cruel or callous, at worst a little naïve or thoughtless. I appreciate that more and more. He reminds me of…someone I used to know. “I thought nobles were all about chivalry and chaste ladies anyway,” he said, grinning slightly at me so I know he forgives me.

“You read too many bad romances,” I sigh. “The common folk like to think their nobles are actually, well, noble. But I doubt there’s one of us who’s above 15 and still a virgin.” He looks stunned and I don’t want him to think any less of me, so I try to explain. “Being a noble is like being a racehorse. Our whole reason for being is to breed more racehorses. Every family wants a son to carry on the name and keep the lands, and a daughter to marry well and expand their wealth, land, influence or all three. Too many sons or daughters can be as bad as none in some ways. My parents were unusual. They married for love and if my grandfather had been alive it would never have happened. But my father was the Teyrn so he did as he pleased. And both Fergus and I were raised knowing that wasn’t an option for us. Fergus married Oriana to consolidate my father’s position as ambassador to Antiva, it was only luck that they fell in love later.” I close my eyes against the memories, hoping one day I could think of my family without pushing them away. I opened them to look at Alistair, listening quietly with that sad, serious look on his face, the one usually hidden by his jokes and dramatics. “I fell in love, and we both knew it would never be. He was a knight in my father’s service, his father Bann of an area barely the size of Highever. So we took whatever time we could get together, until my brother found out. Even if we aren’t ‘chaste’ we’re expected to be discreet. And I wasn’t. I thought I could make my parents accept our marriage and he was too kind to tell me I was an idiot. Fergus - had words with him. And after that everything was different, he was kind, polite, he deferred to the daughter of his lord, and he made sure we were never alone together again.” I’m surprised by how much that still hurt. “After that I had affairs, men, women, whoever took my fancy at the time. But they never lasted long and I made sure I played the game the way I was supposed to.” 

I’m on a roll now, and I don’t think I want to tell Alistair this, I don’t want him to be disappointed in me, in the coward I am, but it’s coming out anyway. “The night Howe attacked. I wasn’t alone in my bed. A friend of my mother was visiting and I persuaded her pretty elven lady in waiting to join me. She was killed in my room, while I tried to defend her against Howe’s men. We went to the hall, my mother and I, and  _ he _ was there, leading the defense, he rallied the men to hold the castle long enough for…for me to run away. I… since then…well…” 

I trail off, not sure what I’m trying to say. I’ll never again let anyone that close. I’m no longer a Cousland, I’m a Grey Warden. Unable to hold land, barren, of no use to anyone except as a weapon against the Blight. I look up and hate the sympathy I see in his eyes. He always seems to understand the things I don’t say better than I do myself. He doesn’t say anything at all. Just pulls me into a tight hug before gently kissing the top of my head and heading off to his tent. I stare into the dark, tears running down my face. 

\------

“So, strange story, tell me if you’ve heard this one? This fellow gets made king, and engaged, all on the same night!” 

He’s pissed. I’ve never actually heard this tone before and I’ve spent a lot of time with Alistair annoyed at me. 

“You realise it’s almost impossible for one warden to have a child, let alone two.” I nodded. When my cycle just stopped Wynne checked me out and broke the news. The Cousland line will die with me.

“Are you going to talk to me at all?” He’s really angry and hurt, I’ve hurt him again. I really don’t deserve him. So I smooth down my skirts and try to explain. I tell him how Eamon tried to persuade me to marry him off to Anora, how I intended to feel her out and how she came round to Alistair as king far too quickly, how she never changed her mind like that. Truthfully, I was expecting her to pull some trick at the Landsmeet but not for her to throw herself in completely behind her father.

I didn’t mention that I had wanted Loghain for the Grey Wardens, to face the Blight if he survived, to face the Archdemon. Alistair had been enraged when Riordan even suggested it and letting him face the traitor himself guaranteed Loghain’s death. It was a waste and a cleaner death than the Joining or the darkspawn would have given him but a small price to pay for Alistair. 

“It can be a long engagement, we can have separate chambers, there are ways around it. But when this all dies down they will start, your mother’s name will be dragged through the mud, aspersions cast on your birth, all to shift power from you to them. The Couslands ruled before there even was a Ferelden. I can give you legitimacy, I was raised for this.”

“Raised for a marriage of convenience?” He really hated that idea, romantic that he was.

“Racehorse, remember.” I smile, reminding him of that conversation long ago. “Besides, Anora’s days as queen were already numbered with no heir and who do you suppose was being groomed to replace her?” He looks surprised. This is why he needs me, he has no idea how these things work. “But I am not a ‘jumped up farmer’s’ daughter, they can’t get rid of me so easily.” They would try but I wasn’t telling him that. I sighed, I’ve left the worst for last and I don’t want to hurt him more.

“They won’t let you marry an apostate.” My heart hurts as he flinches. I don’t know how or when it happened but there is no future for their love outside of the shadows. Morrigan knows it and she will not be the hidden mistress. Alistair has hoped but now I have to crush that hope. He doesn’t say anything, he isn’t surprised or protesting. He just turns and walks out the door. We have to meet with Riordan soon, but for now I just let him process what I’ve told him and indulge my own guilt at breaking my dearest friends heart.


	3. The Witch

When Morrigan returned from Ostagar, Flemeth was waiting. She watched suspiciously while her mother poured them cups of tisane and waited patiently as they sat by the fire and sipped. Finally the old witch put her cup aside.

“What did you think of them?” she asked. It wasn’t necessary to say which ‘them’, destiny hung on two of them like the morning mist, the other two would be dead soon though whether by the Joining or the battle Morrigan neither knew nor cared. But the woman, Rhiannon, and the dolt, Alistair, they were the important ones.

“What do you wish me to say, Mother?” There was always a reason for these talks, Flemeth did nothing without a reason, not even speak to her own daughter. At times Morrigan had wondered if she would forget how, there was silence between them so often. “The woman is powerful, but she is wounded in her soul, she has known loss and it has come close to breaking her. The man is an idiot, like all men. Your display of absurdity made them wary of speaking in my presence so I learned less than I might had you not been such an obvious caricature of a ‘Witch of the Wilds.”

“I do what I do for my own reasons girl, as you well know. The man is not such an idiot as you think and he is the key to our plans. When it is time you will join them, you will seduce him and you will carry out the ritual. This is an opportunity we will never have again. The winds of change are blowing, girl, and we must bend with them or break.”

Morrigan grimaced and hoped it would be some time before she had to encounter the almost-Templar idiot again.

\------

It was unbearable, she decided as she stalked across the camp to throw the rotten remains of a hare down in front of the mutt. Not only did she now have to traipse across the country, Rhiannon kept collecting waifs and strays, each less tolerable than the one before, and her disgusting mutt kept leaving ‘gifts’ in Morrigan’s packs.

“Maybe he thinks you need feeding up?” Alistair was wrestling with the ridiculous thing again and she ruthlessly squashed a thought of how adorable they both looked, tussling on the ground, mock-growling at each other.

“You can’t reject Nemain’s gifts,” Rhiannon laughed, “You’ll hurt her feelings.” Morrigan simply growled at the three of them and returned to her tent to gather everything she needed to wash the clothes the mongrel had contaminated.

The river bank was quiet as she scrubbed everything and it was a warm day so she decided to bathe while her few clothes dried in the morning sun. She needed time to think, everything had happened so fast. The battle at Ostagar had been as disaster, Flemeth had barely rescued the wardens in time, the woman badly hurt and near death, the man less so but lost in his grief, a grief Morrigan had no idea how to deal with so she retreated into sarcastic hostility. Nursing them both back to health took days, even with Flemeth’s powers and then to be cast off, sent on a hopeless quest that looked to last for months, if they survived at all, when she had expected something far different, made her shrewish and short-tempered, taking it out on Alistair for the most part as he was the reason Flemeth had sent her on this wild goose chase.

Over time she had come to respect and even like the wardens. Rhiannon was a skilled fighter, a shrewd tactician and she knew how to use her nobility to her advantage. But she was also compassionate and though both Morrigan and the Qunari had protested at the frequent errand running for the lost and insignificant, it was true that those errands earned them money or trade goods they desperately needed as well as the respect and protection of those they helped, no mean thing when they were pursued by both darkspawn and the Regent of Ferelden. The companions Rhiannon collected had proven themselves useful and loyal, even the assassin, but she still pitched her tent away from them and kept to herself. Let the Warden trust in her motley crew, Morrigan had other things to concern her.

The ritual was imprinted in her mind but she still had no idea how she would accomplish her goal. Her cruelty to Alistair in the early days meant he avoided and distrusted her, once calling her a ‘complete and utter bitch’ though he did not know she could hear him. She had considered him to be all brawn, relying on Rhiannon to be the brains, weak and afraid of leading. Then they had discovered the truth of his birth and upbringing and she understood how it felt to be ignored unless you were useful, left to fend for yourself, though Flemeth had never taught her that she was useless and fit for nothing but indoctrination and addiction. Still, too many hurtful words had passed between them and she had no idea how to mend the rift she had formed. All her plans depended on her seducing a man who hated her and she could only hope she would find a way before the final battle.

\------

She was brushing her long black hair when he knocked on the tent, looking into the beautiful jewelled mirror Rhiannon had acquired for her in Orzammar. “Come in,” she said, without a thought, assuming her visitor to be Rhiannon as the only person who ever chose to approach her. She had no need for companionship, but the Warden had become a friend, even a sister to her, gracious and kind. And now she had gone to face down Flemeth for her, to save her soul from being destroyed and her body from being taken over by the witch who had styled herself her mother. There had been no love lost between Morrigan and Flemeth, not since she was a child. The warm arms that held her had long since become cold, the rich voice that sang her to sleep had become harsher and more critical and Morrigan had shut herself off and congratulated herself on understanding the folly of ‘love’ and the comforting lies people told about it to cover their own weakness. But to destroy her utterly, to take everything she was for herself, to continue that abominable, hateful life at the sacrifice of one she had described as ‘that which I value above all in this world’, words she had stupidly believed meant her, not simply the vessel of her body. She turned to the tent flap, hoping her friend had returned to tell her she was safe, that the nightmare she’d lived in since reading the grimoire was finally over. Instead Alistair pushed his way in and she tensed. He stood awkwardly, mouth slightly open, staring at her as she frowned, completely unaware of how young she looked in her simple sleeping shift, with her hair down and her face bare.

“Alistair. Alistair! What is wrong? Is it Rhiannon, have you heard from her?” She stood, fear written all over her face at the thought of her friend hurt or dying, guilt at sending her against her mother sitting deep in her stomach. She had taken Nemain, Wynne, Sten and Shale, surely they could protect her, surely the healer would not let her… die.

Alistair held his hands up as if warding off her emotions. “No, er, no, no I haven’t, er, I haven’t heard anything. I just, well…” She closed off again as he bumbled, smothering the part of her that found it sweet, letting her frustrations rise to hide softer emotions.

“If you could finish a sentence coherently, Alistair, ‘twould be most appreciated.” she said coldly, sitting back down to continue brushing her hair. She would not give him any sign of approval although their acerbic banter had softened lately and taken on a different, almost suggestive edge. Alistair blushed easily and it was amusing to see his fair skin turn red at a risque comment.

“I just wanted to tell you Leliana and Zevran are back and they brought some of those pastries you like, I thought you might want one. Leli’s brewing a tisane too, the one you like with peppermint. Sorry, I didn’t realise you weren’t up yet.” She had taken the first watch last night and would usually have been up long since but she had slept poorly since Rhiannon left and had no inclination to move this morning as they would not break camp till their companions returned. She nodded in acknowledgment, expecting him to leave but instead he sat on her bedroll, folding his legs under him and watching her intently. She put down her brush and turned to him.

“I don’t believe I ever invited you to my bed, Alistair.” She raised an eyebrow and enjoyed the flush in his cheeks.

“I, er, I just wanted to ask. Are you ok?” Morrigan stared at him, surprised at what appeared to be genuine concern. “The past few months have been, quite a lot. And then finding out that your mother wants to… well, are you ok? No one would blame you if you weren’t, I’m sure I wouldn’t be.”

“I hope I am made of stronger stuff than you.” The retort was automatic and she regretted it as soon as she spoke the words. He disliked her, distrusted her, but still he came to check on her. It was… kind. “I apologise, that was uncalled for.” He shrugged it off, as he shrugged off all the unkind things that were said about him, by her and by others. Their return to Redcliffe had been eye opening, the Arlessa’s gratitude short lived, where he was concerned at least, and the Arl was positively drooling at the opportunity having influence with the next potential king offered him. It was discouraging how he accepted such behaviour as if it were his due and annoying how it affected her.

“It’s ok. I just…” He was a good leader, as strong as Rhiannon in his own way although he did not see it, he would be a good king. He cared. And he was not afraid to do what he thought was right, regardless of the cost to himself. Including opening himself up to derision from one he disliked. “I know I’m no substitute, but I just wanted to check on you.”

“I thank you, Alistair. Now, if you please, I would get dressed.” He flushed again and moved quickly to leave the tent, leaving her to dress. Leliana always bought her favourite pastry if she could, filled with apples and cream, both rarities in the Wilds. With luck such an auspicious start to the day would continue with Rhiannon’s return and word of her mother’s demise. She paused as grief twisted inside her, then put it aside, drawing on her robes and her haughty calm together and stepped out into the morning sun.


	4. King

The coronation had been a blur of ritualistic pomp and circumstance, swords and scepters and orbs and who knew what pushed into his hands and taken away again while the crown gave him a headache, then a neckache, then a distinct wish to throw it into the crowds and hope it was never seen again. The grand ball afterwards had mainly consisted of a whirlwind of names and a list of women he had to dance with, in the order his advisors had already laid out, starting with his betrothed. The food had been excellent but apparently no one wanted to see the King indulge his appetite, the most obvious reminder that he was still a grey warden, so he had eaten only what was brought to him and avoided the tables of delicacies as much as possible (there was no proof a platter of fruit and cheeses had disappeared, the cook insisted it had been handed to an elven servant while the seneschal insisted there were no blond tattooed elves in his staff, it would forever remain a mystery.) It had been an entirely stressful, blurry and above all dissatisfying day, but in truth it had been a walk in the park compared to the day ahead of him.

Alistair woke early as usual and did all the things that earned him despairing looks every day. Opening his own drapes, washing and shaving and dressing himself, even choosing his own clothes, were the only small rebellion he had left. His secretary had given up coming to his rooms, instead waiting in his office with the itinerary Zev had offered to steal and burn. “They’ll only find another one, there’s probably a room somewhere just full of copies of my itinerary for the next thirty years.” More fool them, since he wouldn’t make it anything like that long, he thought on his darker days.

Thinking about these things helped him ignore the clothes that were hung in his dressing room, the ones he had no say in, the ones he would wear later as he foreswore himself in front of the Maker, Andraste and the whole of Ferelden. Instead he threw on a plain tunic and trousers and took the servants passages down to the kennels.

Rhiannon was sitting playing with Nemain, wine red hair scraped back and clothing as plain as Alistair’s was covered with hay and mud and dog drool. She looked up as he entered and smiled at him when he threw himself onto a pile of hay and was instantly pounced on by ninety pounds of pure-bred mabari.

“Ugh! Unhand me you fiend!” Rhi laughed as Ali tussled with Nemain before being completely vanquished and submitting to huge, slobbery kisses all over his face. Sometimes she thought these dawn hours hiding in the kennels were the best part of their lives now and she dreaded the day the pressures of power made them few and far between. She laughed again as he pushed the mabari off and sat up, feigning indignance. “A lot of help you are, leaving your king to his dreadful fate.”

“What help could a poor frail damsel offer his Majesty?” she giggled. “Besides, I’m not even supposed to be looking at you, do you want to doom us to bad luck.”

“We wouldn’t want that, after all we might end up having to fight a Blight, or end a civil war, or solve every diplomatic disaster in Ferelden. Oh no, that was last month, wasn’t it?” He sat up, brushing the hay from his red-gold hair and looked at her soberly. “Or we might have to marry someone we don’t really want to.” 

Rhi sighed. “We’ve been over this. I told you to make it a long engagement, you could have had time to find some other suitable noblewoman…”

“Suitable how?” He pushed himself up. They had gone over this, again and again and he knew that every time it hurt Rhiannon, knowing that she had manoeuvred him into the engagement, knowing that the woman he truly wanted was out there somewhere, pregnant with his child, fully intent that he would never see either of them again. “Rhi, I didn’t mean… I…” he groaned and flopped back down onto the hay. “I’m trying to apologise, to you. I don’t want some noblewoman I don’t know, if I can’t have Morrigan, if I have to marry someone I don’t love… that way… then I want it to be you. But you didn’t want this either, you should be free to find your own love, to live your own life, instead of being shackled to me because I’m a political incompetent.”

She wriggled over until she was nestled against him, tucked under his arm and then she leaned her head on his chest, listening to the too fast heart beat under her ear.

“I’m not being shackled, sweetheart, this was my idea, remember? I don’t want to go off and find someone to replace Roddie, any more than I could replace my mother or father or Oren. You are intelligent and you learn quickly, in six months you’ll know as much about ruling as I do and then you won’t need me any more. Doing this means you’re tied to me, any woman you fall in love with could only ever be a mistress. I didn’t want that for you.” She felt the laugh as much as heard it, rumbling in his chest. 

“What a pair we are. You’re in love with a dead man, me with a vanished apostate and here we are, about to get married and try to run a country together.”

“Can you imagine a better pair to do it? Think of all the quips the Royal Council would miss out on, all the cheese platters that would just be lying about, wasted…”

“You have no proof that was anything to do with me.”

“I think you’ll find Zev will give up any of your secrets in a second if you tickle him.”

“Mutiny! Off with his head.” They both ended up prostrate with laughter, lying with Nemain looking happy to see her people happy. Finally, they both stood and brushed themselves off.

“I’d better go, if I don’t eat before the dressers come I’ll die of starvation before we get near the Chantry.” Rhiannon groaned at the thought of hours of primping and preening to come.

“I have some time, I already shaved so just need to have a bath and get dressed. They’ve even given me the day off, which was kind of them, so I’m going to hide in the library. Judging by the dust reading is out of style so it should be a while before anyone hunts me down.” Grumbling about the unfairness of wedding preparations, Rhiannon gave Alistair a quick peck on the cheek then headed off to the kitchens and some breakfast.

\------

The last dance was a simple waltz and far too short for Alistair’s nerves. When the music ended he took Rhi’s - his wife’s - hand and they bowed to the guests before making their way out of the ballroom under the gaze of almost 500 people, most of whom were smiling encouragingly at the obviously nervous young couple. They held it together through the corridors, graciously accepting the congratulations and blessings of the servants who were gathered in the lesser hall to pay their respects, blushing slightly at some of the more earthy blessings they received from the older men and women who grinned knowingly at them. Finally they made it to Alistair’s suite and he threw himself onto a couch as Rhiannon locked the door behind them. 

“What on earth is this thing?” Alistair asked, trying not to crush one of about twenty little folded paper shapes he had been given, not paying attention to Rhiannon. “Is it a seashell? Or a flower? What…?” He looked up at Rhiannon and yelped, shooting bolt upright and almost flattening the gift in his hand. Rhi had taken off her shoes and her dress and stood in stockings and corset pulling pin after pin out of her hair. She looked over at him and giggled.

“It’s supposed to look like a vulva. It’s a fertility symbol.” He yelped again and threw it as far as he could get, sending the others after their mate. She laughed again and picked one up, placing it on the bedside table before grabbing a hairbrush and starting to brush out her hair with a sigh of relief. “My head feels like it has holes in it.” she complained. When she was done brushing she turned to Alistair. “Come undo this corset for me, please. I can’t reach the laces and I’ve been warned within an inch of my life what will happen if I just cut through Antivan lace.” She noticed the flush on his cheeks and suddenly felt uncomfortable. “Come on, Ali, we’ve bathed together, we even shared a tent when that bear ate yours and Morrigan and Leliana were off scouting out the pass to Haven.” She paused. “I can go back to my room. I know we were going to have a drink, talk about old times, but I can leave, it’s not a problem. Sophie can deal with the corset.” She made a move to pick up her dress and tried to hide how disconcerted she was.

“No, you’re right.” He was suddenly there behind her, carefully unknotting her laces and loosening them. “I’m being silly. These corsets really leave a mark, did you know you have red stripes all down your back?” 

She nodded, “They’re all the way round. Nothing says regal like a tiny waist and reduced lung capacity, you know.” She pulled the corset off and started rubbing the marks on her front as he rubbed the ones on her back.

“Do you need a salve?” She slipped a nightgown over her head and grinned at him.

“Do I need a salve for the marks my armour leaves?” she said, “Do you?” He relaxed a little at the comparison so she started to pour wine for them, carefully keeping her back turned so he could strip off his own uncomfortable frippery. He came forward to take the glass from her and she raised an eyebrow at the light breeches he wore in place of a nightgown, bringing the flush to his cheeks once again.

“They used to run drills in the middle of the night. The templars.” he said. “Being woken up by shouts and kicks at Maker knows when led to a lot of boys tripping over their gowns, so I was told, so we all slept in breeches. Then I spent most of the past year being lucky if I could take off my armour to sleep, never really got used to them again.”

“No, it’s fine. I actually don’t know why I expected anything different really.” She smirked at him. “I bet the maids fight for the chance to open your drapes in the morning, see that broad, muscly chest in all it’s glory.”

“Hmph, I don’t know about that but Zev’s certainly offered to take over as my personal valet and dresser, for a very reasonable salary. All to keep me safe from assassins and fashion faux pas, of course.”

“Hah, I’d trust the maids first. Zev would be too busy staring at that chest to notice any assassins.” It was funny, how much he had changed in the time they had known each other. Once such a discussion would have made him stammer and blush, possibly made him retreat completely. Now he just laughed it off, secure in the knowledge that Zev would never push for something Ali had no interest in giving and comfortable enough to make such jokes with her.

Together they sat and enjoyed the wine and the food she had instructed be waiting for them. It wasn’t really late, the ball itself would continue for hours yet, and they chatted about a hundred things. Finally Rhiannon yawned and stretched.

“I really need some sleep.” She stood, intending to head for the door that connected their quarters when Alistair grabbed her wrist.

“You… you don't have to go,” he mumbled, “You could stay here. If you want too.” She looked down at him, head fuzzy with wine, not really understanding what he meant. Then it came to her and she sat back down and turned to face him fully.

“Ali,” she took his hand in hers, “I’ll stay if you want me to, but you need to be clear about what you want.” In answer he leaned forward, tilting her head up and pulling her into a deep kiss, open mouthed and wanting and tasting of wine and rare fruits and she couldn’t help respond, sinking into the kiss, into the feel and the taste of him, trying to remember how long it had been since anyone but her maid had touched her at all.

Alistair broke the kiss and sat up to look at her. “I’m not drunk.”

“I never said you were.” She had thought it, but the little they had drunk, beside his larger mass and their Grey warden metabolisms, made it unlikely. Whatever he wanted, and whether he would regret it in the morning, Alistair was in full control of himself right now.

“I want this, I want you, tonight, our wedding night. If you want me, I mean. I know we’re not in love, but just for tonight, I…” he trailed off, not quite sure how to express what he felt and she moved to reassure him, drawing him over her, lying back on the couch and pulling him down.

“I want it. I do love you, my Alistair. It might not be a grand passion, we might not be ‘in love’ but I do love you. And by the Maker I want you, I’ve wanted you for a long time, ever since I saw those shoulders when we had to prize an arrow out of your armour.” 

He pulled back a bit. “That was in the wilds, before your Joining, I thought you didn’t even like me back then.”

“I didn’t dislike you, I just thought you were a clown. And who needs to like someone to lust after them? I even had dreams about you throwing me over one of those shoulders and carrying me into your tent to have your wicked way with me, like the Avvar are supposed to do.” His eyes lit up and his lips curved into an almost feral smile. Suddenly he stood, pulling her with him and lifted her up and over his shoulder, ignoring her surprised yelp as he strode to the bedroom and dropped her unceremoniously on the bed. 

“What else did you dream about me?” he said, kneeling over her, linen breeches doing nothing to hide the effect she was having on him and she raised herself up on her elbows to be closer to his pale, freckled chest and started dropping light kisses everywhere she could reach as she began to talk, telling him all the things she had dreamed about him doing to her, voice flattering as he followed her instructions, opening the front of her gown, kissing his way down to suckle on her breasts, teasing first one and then the other with light kisses and nips before sucking hard on the peaked nipple. Then he followed her words further down, nudging her legs apart and pushing the linen slowly up her legs to her waist, leaving her breasts and pussy exposed to the cool nighttime air. When his mouth touched her, tongue laving along her slit and flicking slightly against the swelling bud she shuddered, unable to keep talking as one hand reached up to tweak a nipple at the same time as one thick finger entered her and crooked upward, searching for the spot that made her tense further before melting against his mouth, fluids soaking down his chin as he lapped them up, adding another finger to hear her cry out his name at the delicious stretch. He felt the tremor in her muscles and knew she was close as he pushed a third finger inside her tight cunt and suddenly sucked hard on her clit, pushing her over the edge with a scream and a flood of liquid silk into his mouth. He licked and fingered her through her orgasm, not stopping even when she squirmed as she became oversensitive, driving her up and up again only to stop just before her peak to shift himself up and into her in one smooth movement. Her legs came round him and she thrust back against him, lifting her hips so he filled her as he fucked her into the bed, driving into her again and again, the head of his cock pounding her cervix, rubbing every time against that soft spot that made her see stars, his hand moving between them to rub her clit frantically until she was screaming his name and her tight, rippling cunt seemed to suck the orgasm out of him, as he pumped her full of his seed, calling for her, for the Maker, before finally coming back to himself long enough to pull his softening cock from her and roll onto his side. On the edge of sleep they lightly kissed each other and Rhiannon murmured, “Goodnight Alistair.” and tried to ignore the pain in her heart when he sleepily replied, “Goodnight, my Morrigan.”


	5. Apostate

The Great Hall was silent and empty as Anders walked through it, most of the wardens were outside helping to repair the damage the darkspawn did to the walls of the Keep. He found the silence ominous, heavy and oppressive like the thunderclouds that used to gather over Kinloch Hold. It seemed like the worst had already happened, like there was nothing else that could go wrong, but the air in the keep was still and waiting.

He had been helping, using his magic to lift rocks out of the way, healing blisters and hacks and even a man’s leg when he moved the wrong stone and a cascade of boulders landed on him. Everyone had been driving themselves hard, too hard, since the attacks on Amaranthine and Vigil’s Keep, since the fight against The Mother, everyone - especially the Commander.

He remembered the first time he saw her, a sweet looking eighteen year old who appeared to be wearing her mother’s armour and carrying a bow almost as long as herself, with a mouth as foul as a dock worker and a sense of humour as bawdy as a whores. She had led an apostate, a green recruit and a drunken dwarf to clear the entire keep of darkspawn then saved him from a rabid templar. Even knowing what he knew now he would still jump at the freedom she had offered him. It was no secret among the wardens that he was infatuated with her but he wasn’t the only one, Rhiannon Cousland-Theirin was a flame in the darkness, giving life and light but shining bright enough to burn those who came too close. Unfortunately, she was married and her husband was the King of Ferelden.

Since he came to Vigil’s Keep, rushing from Denerim as soon as word of the attacks on Amaranthine and the Keep reached him, the King had insisted on wearing blue and silver and on fellow wardens calling him Alistair. He was a warden, even becoming King could not change that and Rhiannon insisted they were brothers and sisters together, the Keep a haven and a home. Every inhabitant of the Keep was free to call each other by their names though in practice the guards and servants maintained their formality, at least when they were on duty. Only once a month, when the Arlessa’s Court was held, were titles used and discarded as soon as the last noble left the Great Hall.

There was no court today and it was not his Commander he hurried to see but her husband. Anders didn’t really think of Alistair as his King, any allegiance to anyone but himself had been burned out of him long ago by the Chantry and their Maker-damned templars, but he respected him as a senior warden and an exceptional warrior. He used the skills he learned as a templar recruit against darkspawn instead of innocent mages and Anders found it fascinating that the man had taken lyrium only briefly but his talents were as strong as any full knight, confirming his belief that lyrium use was just another Chantry leash, alongside blood magic and fear-mongering. They had been clearing out a nest of darkspawn when an Emissary caught Alistair unawares with a lightning bolt. Anders had healed the burns almost immediately but the king had been left with a worrying twitch as nerves continued to misfire. He had advised rest, assuming it would pass but Rhiannon’s note suggested things were getting worse instead of better.

He knocked on the door of their room but walked straight in, deciding it was unlikely they would be doing anything he shouldn’t see (not that he would be adverse to a sneak peak, or even an invitation) since he had been summoned. Alistair was lying on the bed, seemingly asleep, while Rhiannon sat beside the bed, his hand in hers, frowning as the door opened. Her frown cleared as soon as she saw Anders and she placed Alistair’s hand down gently before standing to greet the mage.

“Anders, thank the Maker. You need to do something.” She grabbed his hand, now, and dragged him over to the bed. “He was fine, the twitching had settled, then he started talking nonsense and had a fit. I put a strap between his teeth so he didn’t bite his tongue but I think he hit his head. He’s been sleeping since.” Her face was etched with worry, making her look older than her barely nineteen years, fear in her eyes for the first time since their meeting. He instantly started to delve the sleeping warrior with his magic, only half listening as Rhiannon rambled on. The brain was essentially a blob of jelly filled with lightning, ordinary head injuries were difficult enough but the brain itself - he didn't even know where to start. Finally a name penetrated his concentration. 

"Wynne? You summoned Wynne?" He wasn't sure if he was worried or relieved to hear his mentor was on her way. This was far beyond his skill but they had not parted on good terms, pro-circle as she was. But if anyone could fix whatever was going on with Alistair it would be Wynne. 

"I don't know when the mages were heading to Cumberland, I've sent birds out to Denerim, Kinloch, anywhere I could think of." Neither of them say that it could be too late. Anders is many things but he's rarely cruel and never to her. 

"She'll come,  _ Reina,"  _ It started as a joke, calling her  _ Queen  _ as a short form of Rhiannon, before he discovered it was the truth. "For you, for Alistair, she'll come." 

\------

He didn't mean to overhear, or maybe he did, in the Circle eavesdropping wasn't just a habit, it was survival. There wasn’t usually anyone in the Commander’s office after dinner but the voices were definitely coming from that direction so he sidled a little closer, close enough to recognise Reina and Wynne’s voices and the fact they were arguing. In the week since Wynne arrived he’s seen how close they are, how much they care about each other and about Alistair, so if they’re arguing, he really wants to know why.

“I should have let that bitch just have the throne, I should never have bullied him into being King.” Rhiannon sounds upset and angry and something else - despairing. Has Alistair taken a turn for the worse? 

“You both did what you had to do, my dear.” As usual, Wynne’s placid, Circle-trained serenity bugs the hell out of Anders and it sounds like Rhiannon feels the same.

“Bullshit! I should have let the slut have her throne, we could have killed the archdemon and walked away. Instead I shackled him to the throne and me and for what? For a handful of months? Months he could have spent being happy with the woman he actually loved? What the fuck was I thinking?” What’s this? The pair seem happily affectionate together, the image of married bliss. Is it just a show, a pantomime to bolster Alistair’s admittedly fairly weak claim to the throne? Anders pushes down the jolt of hope that sprung up at her words, even if she doesn’t love her husband, they’re still married and she’s never shown any sign of feeling more than friendship for the mage she rescued. “It’s been months, Wynne, he probably has a child, the only child he’ll ever have and I took both of them away from him.”

“I thought Morrigan was very clear…”

“Oh, Morrigan wouldn’t admit a vulnerability if you put her on the rack, especially not about Alistair. But I know her, Wynne, if Ali had left with her, if he’d fought for her, if he’d shown that passion and loyalty…”

“But he didn’t, child. He stayed with you, he became king because his duty was to Ferelden, not to Morrigan, regardless of love or passion. His loyalty was to his people, to his country. You must respect that choice, dear.”

“What choice? Alistair’s too bloody noble for his own good, he was raised to believe he was worth nothing for himself, only for who his father was and even that wasn’t much. He’s never put himself first in his whole, fucking, life. And now you can’t even tell me if he’ll wake up, or if the seizures will just keep coming until they kill him. He’s twenty years old, Wynne, and he’s wasting away in front of me and I can’t - fucking - fix it!” The last words are almost shouted and then there’s muffled sobbing as Wynne takes the exhausted, heart-broken Queen into her arms and Anders realises Alistair has had another fit. Every one risks doing more damage, permanent damage, every one is a chance that Ferelden will be left without a king once more and his Reina is barely holding things together. Ali may not be in love with her, but Anders knows they do love each other and this is ripping her apart. But if Wynne can’t fix him, what can Anders do, what can any of them do? 

He’s halfway to their chambers before he realises it. He’s supposed to meet Nate after his watch, they haven’t had a lot of time together recently and had plans to make up for it, but this is more important. Nate will understand. Instead he lets himself into the room, running through everything he knows in his head, gathering his mana and letting it fill him as he opens himself up to the Fade. Alistair is sleeping, or unconscious, his skin pale and clammy in the flickering firelight, a smear of blood coming from a swollen lip that suggested someone hadn’t got the strap in quickly enough this time. He is wasting away, she’s right about that, his face is drawn and gaunt looking, he’s only managed water and broth since the first seizure and it shows, his hair is greasy looking and flat, nothing like the careful styling that is the King’s only true vanity.

Anders places his hands gently on Alistair’s temples, searching through his brain, unsure which of the lightning flashes are supposed to happen, which ones might be going in the wrong direction, damaging his mind. It’s a swirling chaos, no pattern that he can feel, but he keeps trying while he opens himself to the Fade. He has to be careful with his call, desire demons will flock to him if they sense his need, he has no familiar spirit as Wynne does, he must call one to him, they will be drawn to him by his nature and his training, but there is always vulnerability when one communes with the Fade.

Finally he feels it, Compassion, a familiar feeling and the centre of his power. Wynne once spoke of a spirit of Faith that protected and guided her and her healing. Anders has had no Faith in anything, for as long as he can remember, but Compassion is who he is, what he is, and he welcomes her into himself, sharing his need with her, letting her see the storm he is trying to navigate. She does not shy from the pain, instead she follows it, untangling threads, creating order from the chaos until Anders can understand where the lightning is wrong, where it strikes erratically, not part of the pattern that he can finally see laid out before him by the gentle spirit. She finds the hurt and shows him where it hides. She shows how tiny pulses of his own electricity, honed to perfect precision for entirely selfish reasons, can divert it, push it off course and redirect it, until each strike becomes part of the pattern again. He feels the warmth of her approval and a reassuring caress as she withdraws, barely noticing his knees hitting the floor as his energy finally gives out. It will not be long before Wynne and his Reina find him lying there, drained completely and bedridden for days to come. In a few hours Alistair will waken and after a couple of days Wynne will pronounce him fully healed and the King and Queen of Ferelden will leave for Denerim to resume their duties. Anders will not see them go. He will not see either of them again for years to come.


End file.
